


Somebody else might take my place

by ConvenientAlias



Category: Gattaca (1997)
Genre: Ableism, Domestic, Gen, Jerome Eugene Morrow Lives, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-22
Updated: 2019-03-22
Packaged: 2019-11-28 03:20:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18202805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ConvenientAlias/pseuds/ConvenientAlias
Summary: Anton arrives for dinner early; Vincent is still at work.He's not quite comfortable with Eugene yet.





	Somebody else might take my place

Anton arrives early. It’s a policy his parents drubbed into him: Arriving early to a meeting or a matter of business, but late to a party, leaving a party early and staying late at work. A dinner with Vincent, even casual, qualifies in his mind as a meeting, a matter of business more than pleasure—things are too awkward between them to count it as pleasure. And he had no work today. But he’s too early, because Vincent was raised the same as him, and he has stayed late at work today, and Eugene is the one to answer the door.

It is the back door, this time, since Vincent has informed him that the front door is inaccessible to Eugene, and since he did know Vincent might not be home. Yes, it’s a good thing he chose the back door—Eugene’s wheelchair rolls smoothly but it could hardly mount the stairs, and it makes Anton shudder a little. Eugene was so clearly healthy, even vivacious, when they first met… well, he’s healthy today, too, just not whole, Anton supposes. He comes in and thanks Eugene for letting him in, and Eugene waves it off.

“Come in. I’ve just started dinner. You can sit down in the living room, if you like—I’m not a poor host, I think.”

“I’ll help with dinner,” Anton offers, though he’s no cook.

Eugene gives him a look and then shrugs. “Well, if you want to.” Anton wonders if Vincent has been telling stories about his skills, or lack thereof. He’s told Anton some stories about Eugene, a good number considering how few times he and Anton have actually spoken since his return from space. Mostly stories of ridiculous arguments or close calls. These stories are the reason Anton thinks of Eugene as “Eugene” now—properly the man is Jerome, but Vincent never clals him that.

Anton supposes he ought to call him “Jerome” in person, though, show him a little respect. But when he gives it a try as they head into the kitchen—“I appreciate the trouble, Jerome”—Eugene gives him a look, this one much sharper.

“I gave that name to your brother,” he says, “so let him have it.” He goes to the low table in the middle of the room, where there’s a bowl of cooked pasta, some cheese, some tomato sauce, some spices. Chopped onion. He starts cutting the cheese into slices and tells Anton that if he wants to help, he can grease the pan they’ll be putting it all into.

Anton does. Maybe his manner gives him away or maybe Eugene is thinking about Vincent’s stories again, because Eugene says, “Not much experience?”

“Usually I eat out.”

“And when you’re promoted enough,” Eugene conjectures, “and you get married, you’ll hire a cook.”

“I’m not about to get married.”

“Good for you.” Eugene puts a layer of noodles into the pot, sprinkles them with salt. Next, a layer of cheese. “You know, learning how to cook was a revelation for me. We rich valids act like we’re all that, but in some ways we’re completely helpless. Jerome is a lot better at practical things—though I’m admittedly better at bills and taxes…”

He drones on and on about domestic matters, weary things like learning to separate laundry and new recipes he tried out when he first learned how to cook and the difficulties of cleaning the house while in a wheelchair, chores he takes on because Vincent is always off at work and Eugene has little else to do. Anton listens until he can’t stand it anymore and blurts out, “How can you?”

Eugene pauses, and Anton flushes with the awareness of his own non-sequitur. But by the gleaming of Eugene’s eyes, he knows exactly what Anton means. He puts it into words better than Anton could—“How can I stand to be a housewife?”

“Well, not to insult you… but a man like you could do anything,” Anton says. “I mean, even with your… current condition, there are still jobs which you would be well suited for. I saw your records. I know your IQ. How could you throw yourself away?”

Eugene laughs. “I didn’t throw myself away, little brother. Only Jerome. And I gave that name away very carefully.” The pot is finished, whatever the dish will eventually be. Eugene puts a lid on it and puts it carefully in the oven, which has been preheated since before Anton arrived. Task done, he turns his full attention on Anton and says, “The problem with you—with all of us—is we think we’re irreplaceable. We think we’re very, very special.”

If Anton wasn’t flushing a minute ago, he is now. He says, “Well—”

“We think we’re the only people in the world who can really do things, things that matter. Domestic trifles, cooking, taking care of a building, none of that really matters. An elite is made for more responsibility.” Eugene leans forward conspiratorially. “Well, believe it or not, that’s all a big hoax. Most of those things we’re supposed to do, anyone can do. We’re as replaceable as anyone else. But that’s scary, much too scary for people like us. That’s why we hate people like Jerome, isn’t it? He could take our place, and then we’d be gone.”

What does… “I don’t hate Vincent.”

“You don’t?”

“I don’t. He’s my brother. We just have our differences.”

Eugene sighs and leans back. “Very big hearted of you.” He crosses his arms. “I suppose I don’t hate him either, anymore.”

Anton has heard a lot of stories about Eugene—ridiculous arguments and close calls, all ending happily. He knows, too, that his brother leaves a lot of stuff out. Eugene isn’t someone whose picture is easy to paint, and  there are probably things Vincent doesn’t even want to see. Like the bitter melancholy of his eyes, barely appeased, biting.

“It comes,” Eugene adds, “with realizing that even if he does take Jerome, I’m not gone. I’m still here.” He looks up at Anton, and Anton feels viciously, defensively scrutinized for a moment. Then he shrugs and says, “Well, enough of that. I know my life is boring. Tell me about a crime. Caught any ladder-stealers lately?”

“That’s not usually my area,” Anton says.

“How about murderers, then? That’s your specialty, right? Tell me about a murder.”

Anton sighs. Confidentiality dictates he can’t tell the details of anything recent, but he’s already breaking enough rules just by knowing Eugene and Vincent’s little arrangement and not telling anyone about it that perhaps protocol doesn’t really matter anymore. He launches into a recent case and is halfway through when Vincent comes in and offers him an awkward hug, then gives Eugene a realer one.

“I’m going to wash up,” Eugene says. “Jerome, if the timer goes off, take the casserole out. I might be too late.”

Jerome—Vincent—nods, and Eugene is away. Vincent sits down at the table and says to Anton, “Eugene said he wanted to cook for the occasion, but don’t expect anything too great. He’s still kind of working on it.”

“So I heard.”

“He does try, though,” Vincent says. “I think he improved while I was on Titan, definitely. He’s been a lot… better… in general since then. He said he also did some therapy.”

Therapy, for a valid? Anton fights the urge to shake his head and politely says he’s sure it was a good idea. He’s bound to be scandalized many more times tonight, so he’ll try to suspend his qualms for at least a few hours.

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from "Afraid" by the Neighborhood, which imo has decent Gattaca paranoia vibes. But the idea for the fic came from a list of prompts, one of which was "Be you. No one else can." Well... that kind of mentality is more useful for some situations than others. In Gattaca, it's not true at all!  
> Anyways I think Eugene and Anton should have a lot of arguments about shit like this and in a world where Eugene lives, they totally do.


End file.
